


a rather elaborate game of chess

by kathedrel



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathedrel/pseuds/kathedrel
Summary: The rule was outdated, but it always helped to have a few cards to play. You just had to be careful that you didn't play them against yourself.(Or; Vetinari asks Vimes to look over an old law.)
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	a rather elaborate game of chess

Every day, the Patrician plays a game. It's a bit like chess.

The rules change daily. The players are four-dimensional1, and possess an uncanny tendency towards both revolution and tax evasion. The plays never work out  _ quite  _ like they’re supposed to, and no one can ever find the board.

In fact, it's nothing like chess. The Patrician can win chess blindfolded while doing paperwork. His game of 'Running Ankh-Morpork' requires his full faculties, and he hasn’t got bored yet. 

None of the pieces are permanently set in places. The rules change in ways you don't expect. People make choices that occasionally, just occasionally, run against one's previous assumptions. 

It makes everything that much more interesting. 

He pulls out a dossier, filled with old and yellowed paper. He Doesn't Smile. 

*

Every day, Vimes plays a game. He calls it 'try not to strangle the ruler of the Disc's most powerful city’. The name needed to be shortened, but he couldn’t think of one that didn’t sound pompous2.

_ Tick. Tock.  _

_ Tick.  _

_ Tick. Tick. Tick.  _

_ Tock.  _

_ Tock… _

_ Tock. Tick.  _

The door opened with a creak. You'd think it would've been oiled, but the Patrician liked to know which type of enemies he was dealing with. If the door creaked, it was a politician or a servant. If it was silent, words were required in lesser quantities. 

Vimes wondered when he'd got so good at understanding this. There’d been a time where it wouldn’t have mattered if the door was oiled or not; busting it open made noise either way. 

Vetinari was sat at the head of the table, Not Smiling. It was unnerving. It meant he was...enjoying himself. 

Vimes’ idea of fun could be fit between the neck of a bottle and a good tavern with half-presentable company. Vetinari, on the other hand… if Vimes never lost another game of chess or drank another cup of almost-black tea, it’d be too soon. 

“Sir Samuel,” He said as Vimes sat down. Vimes tried not to make a face. 

“Sir.” 

Vimes did not like the way the Patrician Didn’t Smile. He had many ways of Not Smiling, showing various emotions; indifference, apathy, disinterest, and...neutrality. But this was different. This time it seemed like Vetinari was Not Smiling in a way that meant he’d like to be doing the exact opposite. 

“The Watch has been doing well?” 

“Was that question rhetorical, sir.” 

“Just making conversation.” Vetinari pushed the towers of paper about, putting a condominium or two on the floor before coming across a dossier. “Sybil?”

“Good as always, sir. Teaching Sam dragon anatomy.” Vimes had to fight to keep his face straight at the memory.

“Your boy’s doing well, then?” Vetinari said, sorting through paper. He was talking like you were on trial and he already knew you were guilty. Vimes wondered if that was just how he talked; like his voice had gotten stuck in subtle-but-constant-accusation.

“Got spirit, sir. Taking the same approach to academics as I did as his age.” 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Vimes did not elaborate. He liked to think that after all these years, he'd picked up a trick or two. For a good minute, the only sound was that of Vetinari shuffling papers and pushing a handful to Vimes.

“There’s been some recent talk of...modernising some of the city’s older laws. I’m requesting your opinion.” 

Vimes’ mouth did that thing where it opened without his permission. “Request? Sir, I wasn’t aware you did that.”

Again with the Not Smiling. “I request all the time, Vimes. Quite frequently and quite politely.” 

“Sir,” Vimes said, because you could never go wrong with that. He glanced down. “I’m not sure why you need me to tell you if regulation on candles will lower the city crime rate.” 

Vetinari just looked at him. Vimes didn’t say anything.

“And… table size regulations, sir? I didn’t know we had those.” There was a handful more, including but not limited to the  _ Law of  _ _ S _ _ poon Sizes, Pigeon Ne _ _ ſ _ _ ting Rytes, and Indictmente on the Sharpne _ _ ſ _ _ s of Agèd  _ _ S _ _ words.  _

“Sir, I” He saw the next law, and paused. “-Why do you want my opinion on sodomy laws?” 

Again, silence. Vimes was usually quite fond of silence, but the Vetinari had a way of making one uncomfortable in one’s element. 

“Could be that you’ve got something interesting to say. Sometimes the city needs to change.” Vetinari pauses, looking at Vimes like he’s looking  _ through  _ him. “You never know.” 

“City changes no matter what you do, sir. All by itself. People are funny like that.” 

For a second, Vimes swore he caught a quirk on the edge of Vetinari’s lips. 

“Just wondering what you think, Vimes. Get the opinion of the people down on the streets.” Vimes stared steadily at the wall four inches above the Patrician’s head. 

The thing about phrases like ‘people down on the street’ was that it was used by the type of person who’d never seen Ankh-Morpork in anything but a carriage, the type of person who looked down their nose at you even if they were two feet tall. Vetinari  _ knew  _ how mad it made Vimes, and Vimes  _ knew  _ that Vetinari  _ wasn’t  _ that type of man. He’d worked too hard for this city.

Other people could see him as an unaffected wax statue. Vimes didn’t. 

The Patrician was playing his usual game of four-dimensional3 chess. Internally, Vimes swore and punched the wall. 

Externally, he said; “Most of these seem like ancient crap that needs to be chucked, sir. Times’ve changed. We’ve got more than enough problems to bother wasting time on whether people sharpen their swords right, and pigeons never listened to the law anyway.”

“You could say the same about people.” 

People… “If you clang your sword hard enough.” 

Vetinari would’ve said,  _ If you find the right secrets.  _ Goddamn Vimes for knowing.

“The sodomy law’s crap, too. Can’t be busting into people’s bedrooms at night, sir. You’re not a copper, then. Just a pervert.” 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Vimes stared at the wall.

“Some things just aren’t important enough to bother with, sir,” he said, dropping his gaze. The Patrician looked down at the papers, expression unreadable. 

“Of course, Vimes,” he said, and Vimes flinched at the name. Vetinari seemed to be waiting for something. Vimes wondered what. 

He leaned forward, taking the papers back without flourish. Vimes wondered if it was his imagination that Vetinari's fingers lingered for a second longer than usual.

"Don't let me detain you," Vetinari said. Vimes left, and only looked back once. 

Odd times, these were. He needed a cigar, or at least a coffee. 

Maybe a tea.4

*

Every day, Vetinari plays a game. It’s a bit like chess. 

Five minutes after Samuel Vimes storms out, Drumknott comes in with a cup of tea and more paperwork. “Business in Klatch, sir. They’ve got a bone to pick with Uberwald. Uberwald sent a request for our aid, and the sultan-”

“I’ll get to it by noon.” He said, and took the folder.

“And Drumknott?” He said as the servant was about to step out. To his credit, he turned on his heel immediately. “Yes, sir?” 

Vetinari pushed the folder he’d presented Vimes with to the corner of the table. “Put this back in the archives.”

“Yes, sir.” Drumknott paused, like he was about to ask a question, but thought the better of it. Questions to men like the Patrician, he’d learned, were more likely to end with you spilling your guts5 than anything else.

Vetinari watched him go. He looked out the window, knowing that Same Vimes would be out there, doing his duty, patrolling the streets. And when noon finally knocked the last bit of life out of him, he’d go home to his wife and son, and by tomorrow he’d have forgotten about the questions he’d been asked, putting it aside as another one of Vetinari’s manipulations. He wouldn’t think about how close he’d leaned in their conversation, how his eyes had flitted to Vetinari’s hands and lips. Vimes saw the world in straight lines, even if reality worked in curves. That was how he was.

Vetinari smiled with very little emotion behind it, turning his gaze back to the dossier on Klatch.

Life was a game. Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost. The difference from chess was; most of the time, you landed somewhere in the middle. 

* * *

[1] Contrary to the usual three. No one knows why, but it's probably quantum.

[2] In most parts of the world, this is known as Politics. However, certain tribes in Klatch call it  _ khapiskuaka,  _ the literal translation being ‘no stick talk instead still problem man get hit with stick'

[3] Again, quantum.

[4] Black, no milk, one sugar.

[5] The importance of the conversation would dictate whether this was done metaphorically or literally. 


End file.
